The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

“Where did you say he was?” he demanded, almost savagely in his tremendous self-repression.

“At the bluff, out back. Hurry, hurry, for–God’s sake!”

That was better. The less personal appeal helped him to calm himself.

“How long’s he been gone?” he asked, turning his eyes from her terror-stricken face to help himself regain his own control.

“About a quarter of an hour, or even a half,” she cried.

“It’s a quarter of a mile, isn’t it?”

“More. Nearly a mile.”

“Right. You stay here.” He threw a pistol on the table. “Keep that to protect yourself,” he added, brusquely. “And–Eve, if I get there in time, I’ll save your brother. If I don’t, your husband shall die, as sure as–”

But his sentence remained unfinished. He rushed out of the house and sought his horse. The animal was still grazing near by. He slipped the bit into its mouth. Then he sprang on to its bare back and galloped off.

And as he rushed out Eve fell back into a chair laughing and crying at the same time.

CHAPTER XXX
WILL HENDERSON REACHES THE END

Will Henderson stalked his prey with a caution, a deliberateness, as though he were dealing with a grown man, a man who could resist, one whose power to retaliate was as great as was his to attack. But nothing of this was in his thoughts. It was the fell intent to murder that now cast its furtive, suspicious, even apprehensive spell over his mind, and so influenced his actions.

As Elia at one time had trailed him, so he was now tracking Elia. From bush to bush and shadow to shadow he searched the bluff for the hunter of jack-rabbits. But the bluff was extensive, the night dark, and the movements of the snarer as silent as those of the man hunting him. There was black murder in Will’s heart, the cruel purpose of a mind turned suddenly malignant with a desire for adequate revenge. His was nothing of the fiery rage which drives a man spontaneously. He meant to kill his victim after he had satisfied his lust for torture, and no one knew better than he how easy his task was, and how cruelly he could torture this brother of Eve.

The starlit night yielded up the bluff a wide black patch amidst a shadowed world. There was no moon, but the wealth of stars shed a faint glimmer of soft light on the surrounding plains. The conditions could not have been more favorable for his purpose, and they gave him a fiendish satisfaction.

He had skirted the bluff all round. He had passed through its length. And still no sign of his quarry. Twice he started up a jack-rabbit, but the snarer did not seem to be in the vicinity. Now, with much care and calculation, he began to traverse the breadth of the bush in a zigzag fashion which was to continue its whole length. His old trapping instincts served him, and none but perhaps an Indian would have guessed that a human being was searching every inch of the woodland shadow.

The man had already traversed a third of the bush in this fashion when the unexpected happened. For the tenth time he approached the southern fringe of the bluff and stood half hidden in the shadow of one of the large, scattered bushes outlying. And in the starlight he beheld a familiar figure out in the open, watching intently the very spot at which he had emerged.

There was no mistaking the figure, even in that dim light. Did not everybody know that head, bent so deliberately on one side? The hunched shoulders? The drawn-up hip? It was Elia, and, in the darkness, a fierce grin of satisfaction lit the murderer’s face. He realized that the snarer must have heard his approach, and, believing it to be a jack-rabbit, had waited to make sure. The thought tickled his cruel senses, and he wanted to laugh aloud. But he refrained, and, instead, moved stealthily forward.

The bush hid him while he had a good view of his victim through its upper branches. And he calculated that if the boy remained standing where he was, with a little care he could approach to within a yard or two of him without being discovered. So he moved forward, circling the bush without any sound. It was wonderful how his training as a trapper had taught him the science of silent woodcraft.

As he reached the limits of his shelter he dropped upon his stomach and began to wriggle through the grass. It pleased him to do this. It gave him a sense of delight at the thought of the horrible awakening the cowardly boy was presently to receive.

A yard–two yards, he slid through the grass. Three. One more, and he would be near enough for his purpose. Suddenly and silently he stood erect, like a figure rising out of the ground. He was directly in front of the boy, and within arm’s length of him. He stood thus for a second that his victim might realize his identity thoroughly, and fully digest the meaning of the sudden apparition.

He had full satisfaction. Elia recognized him and stood petrified with terror. So awful to him was the meaning of that silent figure that he had not even the power to cry out. He shook convulsively and stood waiting.

The murderer raised one hand slowly and reached out toward the boy. His hand touched his clothing, and moved up to his throat. The powerful fingers came into contact with the soft flesh, and closed upon it. Then it was that the moment of paralysis passed. The boy fell back with a terrible cry.

But Will followed him up, and again his hand reached his throat. He grasped it, and tightened his fingers upon it. A gurgling cry of abject terror was the response. Again Will’s hand released its hold. But now he seized one of the boy’s outstretched arms, and, with a sudden movement, twisted it behind his back so hard that a third cry, this time of pain alone, was wrung from the terrified lad.

He held him thus and looked into the beautiful face now so pitifully distorted with fear.

“Guess I’ve done the tracking this time,” Will said through his clenched teeth. “You put me to a lot of trouble coming all this way. Still, I don’t guess I mind much. Most folks get their med’cine. You’re going to get yours to-night. How d’you like it?”

He wrenched the weakly arm till the boy cried out again, and dropped to his knees in anguish. But, with a ruthless jolt, Will jerked him to his feet, nearly dislocating his arm in the process.

“Oh, you’re squealing, now, eh? You’re squealing,” he repeated, striking the boy on the hump of his back with his clenched first. “That hurts too, eh?” As a fresh cry broke from his victim. “I always heard that the hump was tender in a dog-ghasted cripple. Is it? Is it?” he inquired, at each question repeating the blow with increased force.

He released his hold, and the boy fell to the ground. He stood looking down at him with diabolical purpose in his eyes.

“Say, you figgered to hand me over to the rope, eh? You guessed you’d stand by watching me slowly strangle, eh? So you trailed me, and went on to Doc Crombie and told him. Ah–h. You like hurting things. You like seeing folks hurt. But you’re scared to death being hurt yourself. That’s how I know. I could kill you with the grip of one hand. But it wouldn’t hurt you enough. At least not to suit me. You must be hurt first. You must know what it’s like being hurt, you rotten, loathsome earthworm!”

He dealt the lad a terrific kick on his sickly, sunken chest, and a terrible cry broke the silence. It was almost like the cry of a pig being slaughtered, so piercing and shrill a squeak was it.

The noise of his cry startled his torturer. After all they were not far from the village. Then he laughed. A cry like that from the prairie must sound like a hungry coyote calling to its mate. Yes, no one would recognize it for a human cry. He would try it again.

He dealt the prostrate boy another furious kick, and he had his wish. A third time the blow was repeated to satisfy his savage lust, and he laughed aloud at the hideous resulting cry. Again and again he kicked. And the cries pleased him, and they sent a joyous thrill through him at the thought of the pain the lad was suffering. He would continue it until the cries weakened, then he would cease for a while to let his victim recover. Then again he would resume the fiendish kicking, and continue it at intervals, until he had kicked the life out of the deformed body.

He drew his foot back for another blow. But the blow remained undelivered. There was a rush of horse’s hoofs, a clatter as they ceased, the sound of running feet, and a smashing blow took the torturer on the side of the jaw. He dropped like a log beside his victim. The whole thing was the work of an instant. So swift had come the avenging blow that, in the darkness, he had no time to realize its coming.

Jim Thorpe stood over his man waiting for him to rise, or show some sign of life. But there was neither movement nor apparent life in him. In the avenger’s heart there was a wild hope that the man was dead. He had hit him with such a feeling in his frenzy of passion. But he knew he had only knocked the brute out.

As Will remained still where he had fallen, Jim turned away with a sigh. It would have been difficult to interpret his sigh. Maybe it was the sigh of a man who suddenly relaxes himself from a tremendous physical effort; maybe it was at the thought that his momentary desire had been accomplished; maybe it was for the poor lad whose terrible cries were still ringing in his ears.

Thinking only of Elia, he now dropped on his knees beside him. There was sufficient light from the stars to show him the lad’s pallid upturned face and staring, agonized eyes. In a second his arms were about his misformed body, and he tenderly raised him up and spoke to him.

“Look up, laddie,” he said gently. “You aren’t hurt too bad, are you? I got here quick as I could. Say, he hasn’t smashed you, has he? God! if he has!” He looked round at the fallen man with blazing eyes, as the thought flashed through his mind.

But suddenly he felt Elia’s body writhe, and he turned to him again with eager words of encouragement.

“Buck up, laddie,” he said, without much conviction. “Guess you aren’t smashed as bad as you think. It’s Jim. I’ll look after you. He won’t hit you again. I’ve fixed him.”

Elia’s staring eyes suddenly lost their tension. He moved his head and tried to free his arms. Jim picked him up and set him on his feet, and noted that he breathed more freely. Yes, he had been in time.

Elia steadied himself for a moment against his arm. He was silent, and still breathing hard. His body was racked with fierce pain, but his poor distorted mind was suffering greater. Jim waited patiently. He understood. It was the awful shock that the boy, in his helpless fashion, was struggling with.

Some moments passed thus, and at last the words which Jim was waiting for came. But they shocked him strangely.

“Did you kill him?” Elia asked, with a struggle controlling his halting tongue.

“No, boy, he’s only knocked out–I think.”

“You’re a fule,” whispered the lad viciously.

Jim had no answer to this, and the boy, recovering slowly, spoke again.

“Best kill him now,” he said. “He’s a devil. He’s smashed me all up. He’s smashed my sick body, and things feel queer inside me. Kill him, Jim! Kill him!”

Watching the working face, the man sickened at the inhuman desire of the boy. Where did he ever get such a frightful nature from? It was monstrous.

“Here,” he said almost sternly, “can you walk?”

“I guess.” The tone had that peculiar sullenness which generally portended an outbreak of the most vicious side of the boy’s temper.

“Then get over there by my horse and wait till I come. I’ll put you on him, and you can ride back home.”

“What you going to do?”

The demand was an eager whisper. It suggested the hope that Jim was perhaps after all going to do as he asked–and kill Will Henderson.

“I’m going to see–how bad Will is. Be off now.”

“Can’t I stay–an’ watch you?”

“No. Get on after that horse.”

Elia turned away, and Jim watched his painful gait. Once he thought he saw him stagger, but, as he continued to hobble on, he turned again to the injured man. One glance at his face showed him the extent of his handiwork. He was ripped open right along the jaw, and the bone itself was badly broken.

He instantly whipped out his sheath-knife and a handkerchief. The latter he cut up into a bandage. Then, removing the silk scarf at his neck, he folded it into a soft pad, and bound it over the wound. Curiously he felt he must lend what aid he could first, and then send out adequate help from the village.

He stood up, took a final glance at the wounded face, and turned coldly away toward his horse.

But now events took an unexpected and disconcerting turn. When he reached his horse Elia was nowhere to be seen. He called, but received no answer. He called again, but still no answer. And suddenly he became alarmed. He remembered the boy’s condition. He must have collapsed somewhere.

He promptly began to search. Taking his horse as a central point he moved round it in ever widening circles, calling at intervals, and with his eyes glued to the long grass which swished under his feet. For more than ten minutes he searched in vain; and then, once more, he found himself beside the man he had knocked out.

He was thoroughly alarmed now. Eve was still anxiously awaiting news of her brother. The thing was quite inexplicable. He could never have attempted to walk home. Why should he? Finally he decided that he must have strolled into the bush and sat down, and–

His glance fell upon the man lying at his feet. How still he lay. How– Hello, what was this? He had left him lying on his side. Now his pale face was turned directly up at the sky. And–he dropped on his knees at his side–his bandage had been removed. He glanced about. There it was, a yard away in the grass. In wondering astonishment his eyes came back to the ghastly face of the unconscious man. Somehow it looked different, yet–

A glance at his body drew an exclamation of horror from his lips. For a moment every drop of blood seemed to recede from his brain, leaving him cold. A clammy moisture broke out upon his forehead at what he beheld. The man’s clothing had been torn open leaving his chest bare, and he now beheld his own knife plunged to the hilt in the white flesh. Will Henderson was dead–stabbed through the heart by–

He sprang to his feet with a cry of horror, and his eyes flashed right and left as though in search of the murderer. Who had done this thing? Who–? As though in answer to his thought, Elia’s voice reached him from out of the bushes.

“He’s sure dead. I hate him.”

Then followed a rustling of the brushwood, as though the boy had taken himself off.

Jim made no attempt to follow him. He remained staring into the black woods whence that voice had proceeded. He was petrified with the horror of the boy’s deed.

He stood for some minutes thus. Then thought became active once more. And curiously enough it was cool, calm, and debating. The possibilities that had so suddenly opened up were tremendous. Tremendous and–hideous. Yet they stirred him far less than might have been expected. Black, foul murder had been committed, and in a way that threw the entire blame on himself.

He saw it all in a flash. It needed but the smallest intelligence to do so. There was no mind in Barnriff but would inevitably fix on his guilt–even his friend Peter. How could it be otherwise? There was his knife. There were his handkerchiefs. The white one had his name on it. The knife had his initials branded on its handle. His last words to Eve had been a threat to kill her husband.

And Elia had done this hideous thing. A weak, sickly boy. It was terrible, and he shuddered. What hatred he must have had for the dead man. He found himself almost sympathizing with the lad’s feelings. Yes, Will had certainly brought this thing upon himself. He–deserved his fate. Yet Elia–the thought revolted him.

But suddenly a fresh significance came to him. He had missed it before. What would this mean to Eve? Elia’s guilt. What would Will’s death mean to her? But now his thoughts ran faster. Elia’s guilt? Eve would never believe it. Besides, if she did it would break her heart. The boy was something like a passion to her. He was almost as though he were part of herself. She loved him as though he were flesh of her own flesh.

No, even if it were possible to convince her, she must never be told. His crime must be covered up someway. But how?

The man stood lost in thought for nearly half an hour. They were the thoughts of a man who at last sees the end of all things earthly looming heavily upon his horizon. There was no cowardly shrinking, there was very little regret. What he must do he felt was being forced upon him by an invincible fate, but the sting of it was far less poignant than would have been the case a few months ago. In fact the sting was hardly there at all.

At all costs Eve must be protected. She must never know the truth. It was bad enough that her husband was dead. He wondered vaguely how far her love had survived the man’s outrages. Yes, she loved him still. He could never forget her the night he had volunteered to carry the warning to Will. Strange, he thought, how a woman will cling to the man who has once possessed her love.

Ah, well, he had never known the possession of such a priceless jewel as a good woman’s love. And now he was never likely to have the chance, he admitted with a simple regret. It seemed pretty hard. And yet–he almost smiled–it would be all the same after a few painful moments.

And only a brief hour ago he had been yearning to fight, with his back to the wall, against the suspicion and feeling against him in the village. He smiled with a shadow of bitterness and shook his head. Useless–quite useless. The one-way trail was well marked for him, and he had traveled it as best he knew how. As Peter said, there were no side paths. Just a narrow road, and the obstructions and perils on the way were set there for each to face. Well, he would face this last one with a “stiff upper-lip.”

One thing he was irrevocably determined upon, never by word or action would he add to Eve’s unhappiness. And, if the cruel fate that had always dogged him demanded this final sacrifice, he would at least have the trifling satisfaction of knowing, as he went out of the world, that her future had been rendered the smoother by the blow that had removed Will from his sphere of crime.

He walked briskly back to his horse and leaped upon its back. Then, turning its head, he sat for a moment thinking. There was still a way out. Still a means of escape without Eve’s learning the truth. But it was a coward’s way, it was the way of the guilty. It was quite simple, too. He only had to go back and withdraw the knife from the man’s body, and gather up the two handkerchiefs, and–ride away. It sounded easy; it was easy. A new country. A fresh people who did not know him. Another start in life. There was hope in the thought. Yes, a little, but not much. The accusing finger would follow him pointing, the shadow of the rope would haunt him wherever he went in spite of his innocence.

“Psha! No!” he exclaimed, and rode away toward the village.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE DISCOMFITURE OF SMALLBONES

Never in all his recollection had Silas Rocket had such a profitable night. From sundown on, his saloon was packed almost to suffocation, and he scarcely had time to wipe a single glass between drinks, so rapidly were the orders shouted across his bar. All the male portion of Barnriff were present, with the addition of nearly thirty men from the outlying ranges. It was a sort of mass meeting summoned by Doc Crombie, who had finally, but reluctantly, been driven to yield to the public cry against Jim Thorpe.

The doctor understood his people, and knew just how far his authority would carry him. He had exerted that authority to the breaking point to protect a man, whom, in his heart, he believed to be innocent of the charges laid at his door. But now the popular voice was too strong for him, and he yielded with an ill-grace.

Smallbones was the man responsible for this rebellion against a long-recognized authority. He was at the bottom of the campaign against Jim Thorpe. Whether he was himself convinced of the man’s guilt it would have been difficult to say. For some reason, which was scarcely apparent, he meant to hang him. And, with all the persistence of a venomous nature, he shouted his denunciation, until at last his arguments gained credence, and his charges found echo in the deep throats of men who originally had little or nothing to say in the matter.

The meeting was in full swing, tempers were roused in proportion to the arguments flung about at haphazard, and the quantities of liquor consumed in the process of the debate. At first the centre of the floor had been kept clear for the speakers, and the audience was lined up around the walls, but as the discussion warmed there was less order, and Doc Crombie, in spite of his sternest language, was powerless to keep the judicial atmosphere necessary to treat the matter in a dignified manner. Smallbones kept up a fiery run of comment and spleenful argument on every individual who backed the doctor in his demand for moderation. He ridiculed, he cursed, he showered personal abuse, until he had everybody by the ears, and by the sheer power of his venom herded the majority to side with him.

One of the men he could not influence was Peter Blunt. He did his utmost to provoke the big man to a personal attack upon himself that he might turn loose personalities against him, and charge him with complicity in some of Jim’s doings, however absurdly untrue they might be. He had all a demagogue’s gift for carrying an audience with him. He never failed to seize upon an opportunity to launch a poisonous shaft, or sneer at the class to which Jim and such men as Peter belonged. Before he left that saloon he meant to obtain a verdict against his man.

Doc Crombie’s anger was hot against the hardware dealer. He meant ruling against him in the end, but he was not quite sure how that ruling would be generally received. He was now listening to a final appeal from Peter in the hopes of gleaning something that might help him when he finally set his foot on the neck of Smallbones’ charges.

“See here, fellers,” Peter said, with a quiet directness of manner, but in a voice that rose above the hum of general talk, and at once silenced it, “you’ve heard a whole heap of ‘tosh’ from Smallbones and his gang. I tell you that feller’s got a mind as big as a pea, and with just about as much wind in it. You’ve heard him accuse Jim Thorpe of cattle stealing on evidence which we all know, and which wouldn’t convince a kid of ten, by reason of its absurd simplicity. Do I need to ask sensible men such as you if any sane rustler is going to do the things which you’re trying to say Jim Thorpe did? Is any sane rustler going to use his own brand, and run stolen cattle with his legitimate stock, in a place where folks can always see ’em? Sure, sure you don’t need to ask yourselves even. Jim Thorpe’s been a straight man all his days in Barnriff. ‘Honest Jim Thorpe’ you’ve all many a time called him. I tell you this thing is a put-up job. Some dirty, mean skunk has set out to ruin him for some reason unknown. There are mean folks,” he went on, with his keen eyes fixed on Smallbones, “here in Barnriff. They’re mean enough to do this if they only hated Jim enough. I’d hate to cast reflections, but I believe from the bottom of my heart that Smallbones, if he hated enough, would do such a trick. I–”

“Are you accusin’ me, you durned hulk?” shrieked the hardware dealer fiercely.

“I wasn’t,” remarked Peter, calmly. “But if you like, I will. I’m not a heap particular. And there’d be just about as much sense in doing so as there is in your accusations against Jim.”

“Hark at him, fellers,” cried the furious Smallbones, pointing at the big man. “He’s his friend–he’d sell his stinkin’ soul for him. He’d–”

“I’d sell my soul for no man,” Peter replied, cutting him short. “But I’d like to keep it as decently clean as such folks as you will let me. Now listen to me. You’ve no right to condemn this man in the way you’re trying to. I don’t know what your ultimate intentions are about him. I dare say some of you would like to hang him, but there’s too many sane men who’d stop such as Smallbones at tricks like that. But you’ve no right to banish him out of the district, or even censure him. He’s done nothing–”

“What about the Henderson woman?” cried Smallbones.

“Yes, yes,” cried several voices, standing near their little leader.

Peter’s eyes lit.

“Don’t you dare to mention her name in here, Smallbones,” he cried, with a sudden fierceness, “or, small as you are, I’ll smash you to a pulp, and kick you from here to your store. In your wretched gossip, and in your scandal-loving hearts you must say and think what you please, but don’t do it here, for I won’t stand for it.”

A murmur applauded him from Doc Crombie’s direction, and even Smallbones was silenced for the moment. Peter went on.

“See here, I’m known to everybody. I’m known in most places where the grass of the prairie grows, and my name’s mostly good. Well, I want to say right here, on my oath, Jim Thorpe’s no cattle-thief, and, as God is my judge, I know that to be true. Jim Thorpe hasn’t an evil thought in his–”

“Hold on,” cried Doc Crombie, excitedly, as the swing doors were pushed suddenly open. “Here’s some one who’ll mebbe have a word to say fer himself. You’re jest in time to say a word or two, Jim Thorpe,” he smiled, as the man’s pale face appeared in their midst.

“Here he is,” cried Smallbones, his wicked eyes sparkling. “Here he is, fellers. Here is the man I accuse right here of bein’ a low-down cattle-thief. That’s your charge, Jim Thorpe. An’ don’t ferget we hang cattle–”

“Shut your rotten face, you worm!” cried Jim, contemptuously. He was standing in the centre of the room. Everybody had made way for him, and now he confronted a circle of accusing faces. He glanced swiftly round till his dark eyes rested on the hawk-like visage of the doctor.

“Say, Will Henderson’s dead,” he said, in a quiet, solemn voice. “He’s been murdered. He’s lying up there on the south side of the eastern bluff. Guess you’d best send up and–see to him.”

His words produced a sudden and deathly silence. Every eye was upon his pale face in excited, incredulous wonderment. Will Henderson dead? Their questioning eyes asked plainly for more information, while their tongues were silent with something like awe. Smallbones reached his glass from the counter and drank its contents at a gulp, but his eyes never left Jim’s face. His astonishment didn’t interfere with the rapid working of his mean brain. To him Jim looked a sick man. There was something defiant in the dark eyes. The man, to his swift imagination, was unduly perturbed. He glanced down at his clothes, and his eyes fixed themselves greedily upon the fingers of the hand nearest to him. A flash of triumph shot into his eyes as he heard Doc Crombie’s voice suddenly break the silence.

“How’d it happen? Who did it?” he asked sharply.

Jim’s answer came promptly.

“He’s up there stabbed to death. Stabbed through the heart. As to who did it, that’s to be found out.” He shrugged. His eyes were on the doctor without shrinking.

But he turned swiftly as Smallbones’ harsh tones drew every one’s attention.

“Say, hold up your left hand, Jim Thorpe,” he cried gleefully. “Hold it right up an’ tell us what that red is on it. Say, I don’t guess we’ll need to puzzle a heap over how Will Henderson come by his death.”

Jim raised his hand. There was nothing else to be done. For a second he gazed at it ruefully. But it was only the sight of the murdered man’s blood on it that disturbed him, and not any thought of the consequences of its discovery.

“It’s Will Henderson’s blood,” he said frankly. “It was necessary for me to touch him.”

The frankness of his admission was not without its effect upon those who did not belong to Smallbones’ extremist party, but to them it passed as a mere subterfuge. They promptly gave voice to an ominous murmur which momentarily threatened to break out into violence. But Smallbones saw fresh possibilities. He suddenly changed his frenzied tactics, and entirely moderated his tone.

“You’ve come straight in?” he inquired.

“Yep.” Jim’s face wore something approaching a smile. He knew exactly what to expect before the night was out, and Smallbones’ questions had no terrors for him. He had nothing to gain, and nothing to lose, except that which he had already made up his mind to lose–if necessary.

“What wer’ you doin’ out by that bluff?” Smallbones demanded.

“That’s my business.”

The little man snarled furiously. All eyes were set curiously upon Jim’s face, but there were several smiles at the manner of the snub. Peter Blunt standing beside Angel Gay was hopelessly wondering at the sudden turn of events.

But now Doc Crombie once more took the lead.

“We’ll send up six boys and bring him in. I’ll go myself.” He turned and gave his orders. Then his luminous eyes settled themselves steadily upon Jim’s face. “We want the rights o’ this, sure. Do you know anything more?”

But Jim was tired of the questioning. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve told all I’ve got to tell you. For Heaven’s sake, go and fetch in the man’s body. It’ll maybe tell you more than it told me.”

He turned to the bar and called for a drink, which he devoured thirstily.

But Doc Crombie was not to be dealt with in so cavalier a fashion.

“You’ll come along up an’ show us just wher’ Henderson is,” he said sharply. “It’ll make it easier findin’.” He stepped up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you get me? Ther’s been murder done, an’–”

“I’ll stay right here,” said Jim, flashing round on him. “I’ve seen all I want to see up there. You’ll have no difficulty locating him. He’s on the south side.”

“You’ll come–” Doc began.

But Smallbones, still smarting under his snub, could no longer keep silent.

“Take him prisoner,” he demanded. “Get him now. Are you goin’ to let him get away? Once he’s on his horse he’ll– Say, he’s got blood on his hands, and he’s the on’y man with reason to wish Will Henderson dead. Gee, get his guns away an’ strap him fast.”